


Monsters in the Dark

by Helholden



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arguing, Bickering, Confessions, F/M, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Love/Hate, Nightmares, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** This was originally written back in July of 2003, but I have revised and re-written it for posting onto this archive. The majority of it remains the same as the original, except for the ending in the last couple of pages, which has undergone a huge re-write from the original. I like this version much better. I hope you all enjoy. I haven't written Dramione in ten years, and my writing style has changed a lot since then!

* * *

 

She doesn’t wake up screaming this time.

 

It’s an improvement, though only a small one.

 

She does, however, bolt upright in bed abruptly, causing the sheets to fall into a heap upon her lap. Her hands clutch at her bare arms, and her breathing is quick and ragged. Hermione is vaguely aware of the thick sheen of sweat covering her body, her heated skin, the blistering fever, and the migraine pounding within the confines of her skull. She is temporarily frightened when she does not remember where she is, but then it floods back into her conscious thought, and she takes slight comfort in this regained knowledge.

 

She is safe here.

 

Her feet land silently on the soft navy carpet beside the bed. It is bathed in silver moonlight, and surprisingly cool to the touch of her bare skin. Hermione doesn’t pull a robe over her nightgown. Only Harry and Ron are here, and they are both most likely asleep considering the hour it must be. She doesn’t want to put on a robe either. It’s unbearably hot for the night, and she is already sweating because of the nightmares.

 

Hermione makes her way carefully to the door and into the hallway, her hand clasping the doorframe to guide her first steps. The kitchen is somewhere nearby, and she needs something cool to drink. As she rubs her hands up and down her arms, Hermione considers taking a shower and cleaning herself up to rid herself of the residue of her dreams. She isn’t sure she’ll get back to sleep if she doesn’t. The sweat on her skin is intolerable.

 

However, she is able to find the kitchen quite easily in the dark. Hermione grabs a glass from a cupboard, filling it with cold water from the faucet. Her elbow knocks into something as she turns off the faucet, though, and she hears a loud clatter as whatever it is falls and hits the floor below. The sound makes her jump. She hopes nobody heard that. The other bedrooms aren’t too close, but Hermione can’t help but think she has probably just awoken one of them. It will be funny if they believe there is an intruder in the house. She sighs and smiles weakly at that thought. _It would be funny_ , she thinks.

 

“ _Lumos_.”

 

Her whole body freezes up, but her grip is loosened on the glass in her hands. It slips out of her grasp and smashes onto the floor at her feet. She lets out a scream and stumbles backwards, stepping on the shards of scattered glass. They cut into her feet, and Hermione screams again, tumbling onto the floor below. The fall is painful, and her feet are even worse, but none of that particularly matters because she is _not_ alone in the room.

 

When she glances up, Hermione sees the soft yellow light of a glowing wand tip approaching her from over the counter she has landed behind, and suddenly the realization hits her that she has only woken up Harry or Ron. She curses herself mentally for managing to make a complete idiot out of herself like this. They’ll probably never let her out of the house now, thinking that she’ll end up killing herself on accident. She’s had so many of those lately.

 

He steps past the counter and stands before her. All of her muscles seize up, and her mouth falls open in silent disbelief. _How in the world . . ._

 

“Merlin’s beard, Granger,” Malfoy scoffs, “do you always walk around in the dark breaking things?”

 

Hermione is far too shocked to say anything immediately. She stares at him, her mouth hanging open. After a short bit of silence, she manages to speak.

 

“M—Malfoy?” she stutters. Not a second later, she finds her reins. “What are _you_ doing here? How did you get in?”

 

A smug look crosses Malfoy’s face. “It’s not that hard to get in here, Granger. All you really need is—” He produces a shiny metallic object from one of his pockets and holds it up into the light for her to see. “—A key."

 

Her face flushes with anger. “Where did you get that, Malfoy?”

 

“Which leads us to the answer of your first question,” he answers lazily. He tilts his head to the side, pausing for good measure. The faintest smirk appears on his face before disappearing entirely and leaving his expression blank. “Harry sent me.”

 

Hermione doesn’t hide her absolute confusion. “Harry . . . sent you . . . ”

 

Malfoy sighs in a bored manner, rolling his eyes along with his head. “Yes, Harry sent me. He and Weasley had an urgent call in the middle of the night and had to leave. He asked if I would come over.”

 

“What for?” Hermione shoots at him. She is growing angrier and angrier by the second at Malfoy, and now at Harry as well.

 

Malfoy raises a single eyebrow. “If someone has to spell it out for you, Granger, you’re worse off than I thought.”

 

Hermione glares menacingly at him. “I am perfectly fine!” she snaps. She tries once more to get to her feet, but the movement causes her to recoil in pain and fall back to the floor again. Malfoy looks down at her feet and swears loudly.

 

“Granger, you’re bleeding all over the damn floor. I hardly call that perfectly fine,” he retorts.

 

She ignores him and tries standing again. Once again, Hermione falls to the floor, managing to bite back a cry. He doesn’t approach her to help.

 

“I know you’re high and mighty with the Muggle way of things, Granger, but just heal yourself already,” Malfoy scolds, eyeing her with a mixture of open annoyance and disgust. “You’d be doing your feet and this floor a favor.”

 

Hermione blushes a deep crimson and fixes her eyes on a spot near her knee. “I left my wand in the bedroom.”

 

She expects him to laugh and berate her further, but he merely shifts around for a bit in silence.

 

“Lift your feet,” he finally says in a flat voice.

 

Hermione sets her jaw and obeys by first raising her right foot. Malfoy mutters a healing spell, and she feels the tingle enter her muscles and begin to heal the cut flesh. As the spell completes itself, she carefully lowers her foot onto a clear spot on the floor. They repeat the process one more time with her left foot. When all is done, Hermione rises from the floor and straightens her gown. She stands quiet for a moment, five feet across from Malfoy, and then makes quickly for the exit.

 

“Where are you going?” he calls after her.

 

“To get my wand!”

 

When Hermione returns to the kitchen with a robe on and her wand tucked into one of its pockets, Malfoy has cleaned up the broken glass and spilled water. He looks up from where he is sitting, which is in a chair at the end of the counter, and arches his eyebrows at her. He is holding the handle of a mug that is resting on the surface in front of him. Hermione notices there is a second one beside him.

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Malfoy says, smirking, “It’s not as if I care. It’s hot anyway.”

 

She feels her face flush again and pulls the robe tighter around herself.

 

“I’m cold,” she lies.

 

Malfoy leans back in the chair, lifting the mug to his lips. He is watching her observantly, still smirking. “Yes, because we all sweat when we’re cold.” His tone isn’t cruel, only amused. He takes a drink, and then sets the mug back down upon the counter. When he notices she still hasn’t moved, he gestures at the other one nearby. “Well, have a drink.”

 

She stands where she is, staring suspiciously at the second mug. “What is it?”

 

“Butterbeer. Iced,” he says nonchalantly, then almost gleefully, “for when it’s cold.”

 

Hermione glares as fiercely as she can at Malfoy, who isn’t even trying to hide the sheer enjoyment he is experiencing from being able to make her agitated. She defiantly remains where she is.

 

“I’m not thirsty.”

 

Malfoy is shaking with silent laughter. “Just like you’re not hot, right?” he counters.

 

Hermione smiles with a faked expression of surprise. “What was that, Malfoy?”

 

He instantly falls still, realizing how his words sounded.

 

She presses on. “Did you just call me, the Muggle-born Granger, ‘hot?’”

 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Don’t even go there, Granger.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t go there, Malfoy. You did,” she says spitefully.

 

His voice is dangerously low. “You know bloody well what I was talking about.” The amusement is erased completely from his face, and suddenly he stands up, taking the mug with him and leaving out the opposite kitchen exit towards the living room. Hermione is left alone, utterly bewildered with what just happened.

 

She swallows nervously and notices her throat is horribly dry. Her eyes fall upon the other mug of iced butterbeer. Throwing her suspicions out of the window, Hermione approaches the counter and takes the mug into her hands, greedily drinking down half of the cold beverage and feeling immensely better. She remains in the kitchen a little while longer, though, clutching the mug between her hands and mulling over her thoughts.

 

After a few moments of standing there in silence, Hermione finally treads out of the kitchen in the same direction as Malfoy had left. She steps out into the living room warily, each step quiet and slow. The fireplace crackles away in merriment, though not in warmth because it is charmed, and shadows are dancing across the walls and furniture like clouds of black smoke.

 

Malfoy is sitting on the far right of the couch facing the fire with one of his arms draped lazily over the back. The other is holding the mug of butterbeer in his lap. His left ankle rests over his other leg, knee jutting out to the side in the same way she remembers her father’s doing whenever he sat down to read the newspaper for the evening. Her father. Her throat seizes up at the thought of him.

 

Hermione stands in the entryway for a long time, wondering what she should do or if she should do anything at all. Harry may be able to handle an emotional Malfoy these days, but she doesn’t know how. The frustrating thought causes her to sigh softly, and she runs her fingers through her less than usual messy hair. She thinks the humidity must have tamed it somehow. Shaking the thought from her head, she sets down the mug of cold butterbeer on an end table as quietly as possible.

 

After regarding the still profile of Malfoy for a little while longer, Hermione finally decides to make a move—and a very, very bold move at that.

 

 

 

She takes a seat on the couch beside Malfoy, and not just at the other end of the couch either, but in the middle. Hermione is not sure what force possessed her to do such a thing, and clearly Malfoy is not so sure either. His draping arm recoils quickly to avoid the accident of touching her, and his whole body becomes rigid as if he is about to jump onto his feet, though he doesn’t. Malfoy simply stares at her, plainly confused, maybe even a bit fearful, and undoubtedly uncomfortable with the closeness. Hermione pretends not to notice.

 

She stares forward at the fire, hands in her lap. His reaction to her sitting beside him prompts her to ask a sudden question.

 

“Why do you still hate me so much, Malfoy?”

 

Her voice is soft and quiet instead of accusatory as is probably expected by him. Hermione turns to meet his gaze, but Malfoy looks away. His face is devoid of any emotion, and all his muscles seem to have frozen in place. _A life-like statue_ , she thinks bitterly. It can’t be helped.

 

There are only three things Malfoy ever shows to the world. Anger, amusement, and nothing. Hermione likes to think nothing doesn’t exactly count.

 

Her question is one she hasn’t been able to understand for a long time. Harry saved Malfoy’s life around three months ago. A pureblood had to be sacrificed for a ritual of dark magic that the Dark Lord wanted completed in his name. He demanded it to be Lucius’ son. Apparently, Lucius did not put up much of a disagreement to this. They showed up just in time. Malfoy was as pale as death, bleeding badly in his chains. Voldemort ordered Lucius to finish it immediately, to kill him before it was too late. Lucius hesitated, and Harry blasted him off of his feet. Malfoy was released and brought to safety before the situation arose to a full-scale battle.

 

Malfoy lost both of his parents on that day. His father was murdered, and his mother was murdered as well, but no one knew who killed her. They still don’t know. Narcissa was found dead at the Manor. It was the Killing Curse. They had put into reports that it was a Death Eater. It probably was. Narcissa did not agree with her husband over the matter of her son, and threatened to tell Dumbledore of the ritual. She went through with her threat after she escaped the Imperius Curse. That was how they found out about it in the first place. Narcissa shouldn’t have gone back to the Manor, but she insisted she had to retrieve something. She was probably hit from behind. At least that’s what they say.

 

Voldemort escaped, though, yet again. _He is still out there right now,_ Hermione thinks. _Somewhere, waiting_. Malfoy refuses to help them do any fighting, and he refuses to tell them anything that he may know, which Hermione believes is very little. She wonders why this is, why Malfoy makes the choice of inaction, but he offers no explanations for it. She thinks he is just tired of fighting. After all, who wouldn’t be after losing both of their parents because of it? She knows how that feels. She almost gave up helping them herself at one point. Harry changed her mind, though. She wonders why Harry can’t change Malfoy’s.

 

Malfoy refers to Harry as just Harry these days. He no longer calls him _Potter_ , but Ron is still Weasley and Hermione is still Granger. Harry calls Malfoy by his given name as well. It’s not exactly a friendship, except that it is. They don’t talk like Harry and Ron do; they don’t spend time together like that either. Somehow, though, Harry and Malfoy have an unspoken bond. Malfoy has even lightened up a bit towards Ron, but he still regards Hermione in the same cold, crude way he always has. The only difference is he doesn’t call her a Mudblood anymore. He has called her a Muggle-born, though, but he won’t do it in front of Harry or Ron. He has only said that to her in private, but those times are extremely rare. Malfoy never likes being around Hermione, and especially not alone.

 

Then, why is he even here?

 

 _Because Harry asked him_ , Hermione thinks vehemently.

 

Many minutes have passed, and still Malfoy has not answered her question. He is staring intently at the fire with a faraway look in his eyes. Hermione doesn’t know why, but the back of her eyes are stinging. She touches the corner of her left eye carefully, realizing that tears are threatening to fall. For some reason his cool, indifferent silence is hurting her deeply, like Harry or Ron’s anger would hurt. Malfoy can be friends with her friends, but she will always be Muggle-born Granger to him. Hermione can’t even understand why he bothered to come out here tonight, at Harry’s beckoning or not.

 

She tilts her head back, trying to hold back the urge to cry, and quickly stands up from the couch.

 

It all comes down to blood, in the end, with Malfoy.

 

Hermione cuts around the back of the couch so as to not pass in front of Malfoy, heading for the hallway. She wants to go back to her room and hopes silently that he will get the hint and leave. She isn’t helpless like Harry thinks she is. She is only distraught. Who wouldn’t be? With people like Malfoy hanging around and her parents . . . her parents . . .

 

She stops at the hallway entrance when Malfoy’s voice carries across the room.

 

“You’re good,” he says.

 

Hermione is jarred from her thoughts. She has no idea what he is talking about. Turning around slowly, she finds that Malfoy is still gazing at the fire, but his face is strained. She looks at his hand, the one holding the mug; his grip on the handle is deathly tight and his knuckles are solid white. Hermione calms her nerves with a deep breath before speaking.

 

“What?”

 

Her voice comes out a little shakier than she likes. Malfoy shifts on the couch. She can tell he’d rather not elaborate, but he does.

 

“You asked why I still hate you,” he replies smoothly. “It’s because you’re good.”

 

Hermione tries to take this in, but it doesn’t make any sense to her. “Because I’m good . . . ?” She wraps her arms around herself, furrowing her brow. “I don’t understand.”

 

Malfoy lets out a small chuckle. He turns his head to look at her, and suddenly he seems a bit more relaxed. “Yes, because you’re good, Granger. Why, you’re ‘Miss I’m so Innocent I Still Wouldn’t Know the Meaning of Evil If I Looked It Up in the Dictionary,’ for Merlin’s sake.” Malfoy stands up from the couch and, without looking away from her, deposits the mug of butterbeer onto the coffee table. He isn’t smiling anymore. “Your whole perfect, pristine existence makes me _sick_ to my stomach,” he sneers, approaching her with the likeness of a snake poising for attack.

 

Hermione is enraged, and even insulted by his accusation. How can he say she has no idea what evil is when she’s seen what it can do firsthand? Standing her ground, she snaps back at him, “That is a lie, and you know it! Why do you think Harry asked you to come over? I know what evil is! I had to see it _murder_ my parents!”

 

The tears are falling now, and she can’t stop them. Anything about her parents has the power to make her break down and fall to her knees, though she remains standing out of pure defiance. Malfoy isn’t fazed by her display of tears, though. He halts right before her, no more than a foot away, smirking with thin, cruel lips.

 

“I’m not talking about what you’ve seen, Granger. I’m talking about what you’ve _done_.” She follows the path of his eyes and his hand, a hand made up of elegant fingers rising over her head. Above the crown of her messy hair, he traces a fake halo with his index finger. “Which is nothing.”

 

“What’s so wrong with that?” Hermione asks in a shrill voice. “What’s so wrong about never doing anything wrong?”

 

Malfoy lowers his hand back to his side, looking her straight in the eyes. “Nothing, I suppose.” He shrugs absently. “But you asked why I still hated you, and that’s why.”

 

Hermione stares in disbelief. He gazes at her for a little while as if contemplating something, then he turns away and heads back to the couch. Malfoy lounges in a lying position this time, closing his eyes against the partial darkness of the room. She isn’t able to move or talk or do anything in response. Of all the things in the world to hate somebody for . . .

 

“And don’t even say it because you know it’s not true,” Malfoy drawls.

 

Hermione is shaken unexpectedly from her thoughts. “What?”

 

He laughs softly. “That you hate me. Don’t say it because you know it’s not true.”

 

“And how would you know?” she snaps, feeling the anger surge back into her veins.

 

“Because you don’t hate anyone. You just don’t like them. It’s part of the goody-goody nature, I suppose . . . ”

 

It happens so quickly that Malfoy doesn’t have time to react. Hermione storms over to him, slapping him hard across the face. His eyes pop open in shock, but before she can swing at him again he is able to snag her by the arms. “Let me _go_!” she shrieks, twisting and jerking so violently that when he does let her go, she loses her balance and topples into the sharp corner of the coffee table. Hermione cries out in pain from the impact and falls to the floor. Malfoy swears and slips off the couch, getting down on his knees beside her.

 

“Shit, Granger! Can’t you control your temper? You’re almost as bad as Weasley sometimes, I swear. By Merlin if Harry’s going to skin me alive because of _you_. . . ” He stares at her for moment, seeming unsure of what to do. “Well, where did it hit you?” His voice is annoyed, however, not concerned.

 

Hermione doesn’t answer. She only glares at him, biting fiercely on her bottom lip.

 

“Look, I’m not leaving you here with a bruise the size of England on your back that you can try to blame on me,” he hisses indignantly.

 

Again, no answer.

 

Malfoy sighs irritably, rolling his eyes. “Fine. You want to do this the hard way, then we’ll do it the hard way, Granger.” He props himself up using his left arm and positions himself above her. Hermione’s eyes grow wide, and she makes a squeal in the back of her throat while trying to scoot away. Malfoy looks down at her face, clearly surprised, and then it dawns on him. He breaks out into a grin and tries suppressing his laughter. “Please, Granger, like I would ever shag _you_.”

 

This only makes her even angrier. Hermione deftly slaps him again. “How dare you? There is nothing wrong with me!”

 

Malfoy gently rubs his cheek with his other hand. He lowers his hand, smirking back at her. “Are you saying you _want_ me to shag you?”

 

Hermione slaps him yet again. He falls over to her right, clutching his face.

 

“Goddamn it, Granger!”

 

She climbs to her feet as quickly as possible and kicks him with as much force as she can muster in his side. He swears profoundly at this, and Hermione smiles at her small victory.

 

“Now we’re even,” she says pleasantly.

 

With ease, she steps over him to go and collect her mug from the end table when Malfoy trips her on purpose. Hermione cries out, landing on the floor with her palms and knees taking most of the impact. Malfoy climbs onto her back and effectively pins her down. “Rug burn is such a pain in the arse, don’t you think?” he asks cheerfully.

 

“ _You’re_ the pain in the arse, Malfoy!”

 

He gasps in mock surprise. “Why, Granger, I didn’t think we went that far yet!”

 

Hermione bends her knee and savagely kicks inward, hitting Malfoy between the legs. He swears yet again; this time a nasty four-lettered word. She shoves him off and manages to scramble onto her feet, straightening up her disheveled robe. Looking down at him, she fixes him with a deadly leer. “I don’t think there’ll be any of that,” she says venomously. Then, a little too brightly, “Especially now.”

 

She stalks away from him towards her mug again, but something catches around the front of her ankles like a rope, and before she knows it she’s back on the floor again in crumpled heap.

 

" _Malfoy!_ "

 

Hermione rolls over onto her back to see him standing before her and laughing. Apparently, she didn’t kick him hard enough. Hermione sits up, but he quickly straddles her knees before she can manage to get away. She squirms and twists helplessly beneath him, but the spell is still in effect around her ankles, rendering her legs useless.

 

“Get _off_ me!” Hermione orders.

 

Malfoy smirks at her, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Trip Jinx,” he replies. “I used it to trip Harry in our fifth year, you know.”

 

“Like I care,” Hermione says through clenched teeth.

 

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I suppose all virgins are—”

 

She lunges at him, pushing him onto his back and freeing her legs. He grabs her forearms almost instinctively, but he pulls her down on top of him by accident. Hermione falls hard against Malfoy’s chest, effectively knocking the wind out of both of them.

 

They lie still on the floor like that for a while, staring at each other and trying to regain their lost breaths. Hermione’s eyes travel over his face. He is flushed; his normally pale skin is pink, tinged with a bit of red in the cheeks. His parted lips look slightly swollen from aggravation, giving them a reddish hue. _Has he been biting them?_ she wonders, but the thought is so strange it shocks her into further tense stillness.

 

Malfoy licks his lips, and she sees it. Up so close, it causes her heart to pump erratically, and her eyes widen in surprise. Hermione realizes this is the closest she has ever been to Malfoy. The thought makes her cringe, and she scrambles off of him and climbs to her feet. He slowly sits up behind her, watching her with a childlike interest.

 

“So . . . ” he says, pausing as a smirk creeps onto his lips, “ . . . was it good for you?”

 

Hermione snatches a pillow from the couch and throws it at him. Malfoy catches it and laughs. “Well, you’re the first unsatisfied woman . . . ”

 

“Oh, quit acting like you’ve even _been_ with a woman!” Hermione retorts hotly. “Because you haven’t!”

 

“Says who?” Malfoy asks, obviously offended.

 

“Says Harry!”

 

Malfoy’s mouth falls open and his eyes widen in horror. “Why, that nasty little blighter—” He suddenly pauses, eyeing Hermione with wariness. She is trying desperately to hold back a grin, and he notices. “Wait . . . ”

 

“I knew it!” she cried out.

 

“No!” Malfoy leaps to his feet and points his finger at her, his face burning with color. “You tricked me! That is so—so—”

 

“Wrong?” Hermione offers, crossing her arms. The grin, however, is no longer on her face.

 

Malfoy drops his hand to his side, his reddened face contorting in a mix of what must be anger and shame and surprise. An uncomfortable silence descends upon the room, leaving only the sounds of the crackling flames from the fireplace and Malfoy’s heavy breathing. Hermione chews on her bottom lip and wonders in the secret chambers of her mind what he is thinking. She breaks eye contact with him by looking at the floor and rubs her forehead with her hands.

 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not going to tell anyone. It doesn’t matter . . . ” She shakes her head and laughs softly, and a bit sadly. “And you’re right, you know. I don’t hate you. You’re human just like the rest of us. I just don’t understand what drives you to be the way you are. I just . . . I just wish you’d treat me like a person with _feelings_ sometimes instead of . . . ”

 

Her voice trails off, encompassing the room in silence. The fire crackles nearby. She doesn’t even know where the words are coming from. She is speaking them with ease as if she is standing there and talking to Harry or Ron and not Draco Malfoy. Hermione rubs her temple with her hand, shaking her head.

 

“Okay, so all of the time,” she adds. “Maybe I’m being selfish and unrealistic, but isn’t that what everyone wants? To be treated like they matter?” Hermione drops her hand and lifts her face to see him.

 

Malfoy is gazing blankly at what may or may not be the couch or coffee table. He stands there unmoving, save for the flexing of his fingers at his sides. When he doesn’t reply, Hermione decides to be bold again.

 

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

Malfoy stiffens, entirely aware of incident she is talking about. His turns his gaze upon her, and Hermione swears she can see a fire blazing beyond the gray of his eyes. But what if it was always there, and she just never took the time to see it before? What if he’s just been very good at hiding it? She clutches her arms again, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. Hermione feels something in her chest crack. Why is his silence so painful? He is only Draco Malfoy.

 

_Because he wants to say something, but he’s afraid. Say it for him. Just say it for him . . ._

 

“Because you do matter,” Hermione finds herself saying. “You matter and Harry matters and Ron matters and I _matter_.”

 

She wants a reaction out of him so badly other than the silence that she doesn’t care if he loses it and storms out because she went too far. She just wants him to show that he feels something, anything. Something other than the nothingness because that’s all he ever shows to her. Hermione always sees that nothingness behind his eyes, and yet she knows there is more to him than that. She knows it, so why does he insist on hiding it?

 

She asks herself that question, but there is no answer she can think of and no answer he is willingly to give. Her head is pounding again; it hurts so much from thinking. She lifts her hand to touch it again, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. _For God’s sake,_ say _something!_

 

“Why?”

 

Her heart leaps into her throat, and her other hand flies instinctively to her chest. He spoke. _He spoke_. He asked why. _Why? Why what?_

 

“Why what?” she asks quietly.

 

“Why are you saying this?”

 

Her heart falls back into place, plummeting so fast it catches her off guard. She feels as though she has fallen from somewhere high above and hit the ground below with a smack. He doesn’t believe her, does he? He thinks she is just saying it to be saying it. Hermione hates herself for not being able to handle this calmly, for not being able to keep her nerves from shaking and her eyes from burning. It is such a trivial thing to be upset about. If he doesn’t care, then why should she? She wishes she doesn’t, but she does, though she cannot fully understand why. Human or not, Draco Malfoy is an insufferable person with no consideration for other people’s feelings. _Maybe even lives_ , she thinks in her fit of rage.

 

“Just because you’re a liar doesn’t mean the rest of us are!” she hollers at him. “If you want to believe I’m just making it up, then fine! Believe it, Malfoy! It can all be lies if that’s all you’re used to!”

 

With that, she turns on her heels and storms out of the living room. She doesn’t even bother lighting her wand as she stumbles through the hallways. Hermione moves quickly, finding her room rather sooner than she expects to. She hurries in, slamming the door behind her, and makes for the bed. She falls on top of it like a little child would, burying her face into the softness of the pillow. She does not cry, only breathes in deep. Heavy, deep breaths that allow as much oxygen as possible to fill her lungs. After what seems to be about twenty minutes, her heart rate slows down and she is comforted by her new surroundings.

 

Draco Malfoy isn’t there to ruin them.

 

Hermione finally musters up the strength to pull the robe off her shoulders. It is too hot to be wearing it, anyway. She merely shoves it over to a spot beside her on the bed, and then she lifts a single sheet up to her waist; she has never been able to lie down without being covered somewhat. Her surroundings are bathed in pure silence. Not a single sound can she hear in the room, save for the steady breathing of her lungs and the beating of her heart. It is very uncomfortable for her, though. It’s far too quiet. She has never been able to sleep in complete silence before.

 

Hermione lies there for what must be over an hour, yet not quite two. She stares up at the ceiling, wondering if and when she falls asleep will the dreams come back—the ones about her parents that wake her up every single night. The ones that empty her out and leave her with nothing but fear and dread and the feeling of doom wrapped tightly around her chest. She hates waking up that way all the time.

 

Sometimes she tries to go without sleep for as long as possible, but it makes her collapse from exhaustion. She’s had a lot of accidents lately because of that. Ron and Harry forbid her to do it anymore. They can’t exactly stop her, though. The most they can do is insist she take a sleeping draught.

 

They gave her have the dreamless sleep draught in the beginning, but she grew tired of having to constantly take it, for the dreams—or the nightmares, really—never truly went away. Hermione took the draught until she was absolutely sick of it, which was probably after a month of consuming it each night. It was about four months ago when her parents were murdered. Three months ago when she stopped taking the draught. Three months ago when . . .

 

When Malfoy’s parents were murdered.

 

It strikes Hermione that she has never noticed how she, Harry, and Malfoy are all orphans now. All teenagers. All without parents. _Ron is lucky_ , she thinks. Maybe that is why she and Ron broke up. She became jealous, spiteful, angry even that his family was still, for the most part, intact. He had lost one of his brothers, but it isn’t the same. Ron doesn’t understand the type of loss that takes everything away. _And_ _I’ve lost everything_. The only person who truly understands her pain is Harry. He may not remember losing his parents, but he had lost them. _And Sirius . . ._

 

No one understands her pain like Harry. She used to ask him if he would stay with her at night, help her sleep. Comfort her. Ron did not like it. They had a huge fight over it. Stupid, silly thing that was. She misses clinging to somebody. Somebody like her; somebody who understands. She misses Harry’s warm arms around her, though not in a lover’s embrace, only a comforting embrace. It was like her father clinging to her when she had nightmares as a child and she would climb into her parents’ bed. She misses her father. She misses him so much.

 

Hermione is suddenly torn from her thoughts. There is the softest creak coming from the doorway. She can hear the door opening. Her breath hitches inside her chest. Harry and Ron can’t be here yet. They are always so noisy when they move through the house, and Malfoy . . . didn’t Malfoy leave? Certainly he didn’t stay here after that row earlier, and he certainly would not be coming into her room.

 

She hears the soft click of the door closing. Her heart pounds madly within her ribcage. Hermione tries to think of what should she do. She could pretend she’s asleep, bolt upright and scream, grab for her wand underneath the pillow and cast a jinx on the intruder. How silly she would be if it was only Harry or Ron. Hermione mentally berates herself to calm down. She can take a peek and see who it is without the person realizing she’s awake. It’s easy enough to do. Then, she can decide what course of action to take.

 

She carefully tilts her head with the slightest of moves, opening her eyes only a sliver. It is very dark in the room, but she can see the person’s head, the short-cropped hair, bright in the cast of moonlight . . .

 

He is approaching slowly, cautiously. She cannot see his face, but she knows that silvery blond hair from anywhere.

 

 

Hermione doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know why he is in her room of all places when she is supposed to be asleep and he is supposed to be gone. She doesn’t know if he means to play some childish prank on her. He could hex her while he thinks she’s sleeping, thinking he’s won some victory with it. The nerve of it makes her angry. After everything he has been through, he is still a whiny brat picking battles where there are none. Hermione wants to grab her wand and hex him first, but something holds her back. She doesn’t know why, but her hand is still. She tells herself she wants to know what he’s planning to do before she makes it known she is awake, so she pretends to be asleep. It isn’t such a hard thing to do, after all. She’s done it so many times for Ron and Harry just so they would leave her alone.

 

She can feel his presence beside the right side of her bed, the half she is laying on. He is quiet. He doesn’t do anything. Malfoy stands there for a while just like that. Hermione can feel every single nerve of hers tightening, anticipating something. Anything. She knows he is staring at her; she can feel it. He is probably trying to figure out what hex will be the best to use on her. She can picture it, his hand raising his wand—

 

“Granger?”

 

His voice is smooth, soft. Gentle, even. She has never heard him speak like that before. It surprises her, but she does not open her eyes. She doesn’t say anything. Hermione continues to feign sleep. Malfoy is only trying to see if she is asleep before hexing her into oblivion, anyway, but her hand clenches around her wand beneath the pillow. He is silent for about a minute.

 

“Granger, are you awake?”

 

His voice is a little more urgent this time. A few more words as well. Hermione remains unresponsive, but ready to strike at any moment.

 

“Granger . . . ”

 

Hermione almost wants to frown. Still, no action. It’s almost as if he is trying to call to her, hoping she’ll wake up, but his voice is so quiet. He isn’t raising it. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to wake her up, but his urgency says otherwise. She realizes he isn’t going to give up. She shifts groggily onto her side, twitching her head towards him, and moaning slightly for good measure. She’s seen plenty of people do that in their sleep when someone is trying to wake them up. She has even seen Ron do it a million times whenever she’s tried to wake him up. A lock of curly hair falls right into her face, though, and tickles her eyelash. Hermione wants to push it out of the way, but she doesn’t want to move. She is supposed to be asleep. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t break the pretenses, but there is a nagging feeling of doubt in the back of her mind . . .

 

She feels the edge of the bed sink downward, and her heart nearly leaps from her chest. Hermione wants to bolt up now and scare him half to death for doing that. He has no right sitting on her bed, and with her _asleep_ on it. She isn’t expecting what comes next either. His fingers, surprisingly warm, graze against her cheek. Hermione flinches involuntarily. Malfoy must believe the action normal because he doesn’t react to it. He doesn’t pull away. The next thing she feels is one of his fingers curl under a lock of stray hair and pull it away from her face. Hermione’s heart hammers so loud that he must be able to hear it, but if he can he doesn’t acknowledge it.

 

Malfoy’s hand returns to her face, his thumb gently sliding along her cheek. She wants to scream. This isn’t right. You don’t touch someone you hate like a lover while they sleep, but Malfoy doesn’t hear her thoughts, and she doesn’t speak them out loud. His whole hand carefully lowers upon her jaw and neck, and he glides the tips of his fingers ever so lightly along the sensitive skin below her ear.

 

Hermione feels a tingle surge through the small pocket of just below her ear as he touches her. It feels nice, but it’s Malfoy. She silently hopes he doesn’t go any further. She never thought of him as this kind of person, to touch someone while they sleep. Someone he hates. Someone he mocks. If he stops now, she’ll just let it go and be forgotten, and by the morning they won’t ever speak of it again.

 

As if he hears her silent command, Malfoy removes his hand from her cheek. He seems reluctant to do it, but he does it. His breathing sounds ragged and heavy. She hears Malfoy sigh softly and shift around on the edge of the bed. He makes a quiet huff through his nose, followed by a _humph_ low in his throat. It’s almost as if he is laughing at himself. Hermione equally tenses and loosens, her shoulders going rigid but her fingers releasing their clutch one by one from her wand.

 

“Why you?” he asks in a strained voice. “Why does it have to be you?”

 

Hermione doesn’t understand what is going on. She wants to pull the sheet over her head and hide, but she can’t move. She mustn’t move. He sighs again and, according to the sinking feeling of the bed towards her, moves closer.

 

“Mudblood,” Malfoy says in a whisper. She feels the bed tremble as he tilts his weight. “You’re supposed to be ugly, you know . . . ” He laughs, a bitter, quiet laugh. “Oh, if only my father could see me now . . . ”

 

He goes silent again, and suddenly the familiar sting returns to Hermione’s eyes. She shouldn’t be hearing this, but she is. These are private words. They’re for her in a way, yes, but it seems so wrong to be hearing them because she isn’t really supposed to be hearing them. Her chest is aching now. She isn’t sure from what. She feels like she’s been holding her breath underwater for too long, and her lungs might burst if she doesn’t breathe in soon.

 

“It’s so easy speaking to now when you’re asleep. You can’t hear me. You can’t laugh. You can’t yell at me . . . or call me a liar. I can say anything I want, and you’ll never argue with me. You won’t think it’s some horrible joke like you would if you were awake.” He grows quiet, and she can hear his breathing in the silence.

 

Her hand unconsciously grips the mattress. This is far too much information for her, and she doesn’t know how to handle it.

 

“Why can’t I hate you anymore, Granger?” Malfoy whispers so quietly it seems but a breath as he leans over her, the bed shifting again under his weight. “I try so hard, but you just won’t let me . . . ” He stays like that, hovering just slightly next to her, for quite some time. It unnerves her having him so close to her, being so intimate with her, and all the while believing she is asleep.

 

She releases her held breath when Malfoy finally breathes out himself, almost a sigh, and leans away from her.

 

“I’m sorry I lied,” he finally says in a quieter voice than before, sounding so far away from her despite the little distance. “This mask . . . it’s all I have anymore.”

 

Suddenly, all of the pretenses, all of the games, they all fall away. The world isn’t dissolved into her half and his half anymore, the light and the dark. They may have come from different ends of the spectrum, but their journey led them both here. To some protected Muggle house on Abercorn Circle, him following orders given to him by Harry and her trying to recover from the losses of war.

 

It’s a circle of fate with strange bindings written in a foreign language she has yet to learn, but Hermione finds it’s not quite so strange to her. Her hand slides out from underneath her pillow, away from her wand, and slips over the soft sheets. Malfoy was her enemy once, a bully who hated her for what he called her ‘dirty’ blood, and then he was an antagonist who had lost his way until Harry showed him a new one. Now, he is a tentative friend of Harry’s. He even took the time to befriend Ron despite a blood feud that had likely run for centuries between their families.

 

Hermione watched it all in disbelief at first, and then with a calm acceptance. She even felt happiness once for it to see these boys once at odds with each other turn over a new leaf. It gave her hope that things could be different, that they could change the world. If they could bring Draco Malfoy to their side, they could do it again with anyone. Hermione believed it with all of her heart.

 

Yet while Malfoy befriended Harry, a half-blood, and Ron, a pureblood, he did not want to be her friend. He did not want to mend the broken bridges between them. He still looked on her with disdain. He still called her names when Harry and Ron weren’t around, and while Hermione never took any of it lying down, all of her dreams and hopes of changing people were shattered as quickly as they had been built.

 

Because they couldn’t change Malfoy, not really.

 

He was still a pureblood, and she was still a Mudblood, and that fundamental difference—the core of everything they were fighting for—would never change.

 

She knows now, finally, that she was wrong.

 

He breathes out, and Hermione can feel herself relaxing further. She would be concerned with how close he is to her if it isn’t for the fact that she has just heard him apologize to her. Of all the things she expects from Malfoy, an apology is not one of them. Hermione can’t think right now, though. Her brain is scattered and so are her thoughts, and his close proximity makes it even worse. At least, she thinks, she doesn’t feel frightened anymore. She feels, in an odd sort of way, a bit safe.

 

He leans back a comfortable distance, as if he is reading her thoughts once again. Hermione feels her muscles loosen and let go of their tension. Something makes her feel ashamed, though, and she recognizes what it is sooner than she expects with her mind working at such a sluggish rate.

 

Her earlier thoughts, believing in the worst of him. Her assumptions before she has decided to give him a chance. It’s not her fault. It never has been. Malfoy’s never given her a reason to believe in him before. Still, she feels ashamed at thinking it. Malfoy isn’t that kind of person. She should have known that. But he isn’t this kind of person either, is he?

 

She can feel the bed move slightly as Malfoy leans back a bit more, probably in a straighter position. He sighs. He sounds exhausted.

 

He also sounds defeated.

 

“Somehow none of it matters anymore,” Malfoy admits quietly. “Mudblood . . . pureblood . . . they’re just words now. Just stupid words.”

 

Maybe it is her bewildered state after listening to everything she has just listened to. Maybe it has something to do with all the pain she has been experiencing lately, fighting sleep and fighting dreams. Maybe it is just because of everything that has occurred between the two of them on this night. Or maybe it’s really just because she doesn’t give a damn anymore about reactions and consequences.

 

Hermione opens her eyes to look at him, pushing herself up on her elbows into a sitting position. Malfoy starts back as if a jolt of electricity has passed through his nerves. His eyes widen in horror much like they did earlier, and his mouth falls agape. He is about to jump off the bed, but he freezes for only a few seconds, and those few seconds are all Hermione needs to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him to her.

 

She hears his breath hitch in his throat, and she can imagine what kind of fear is racing through his veins. The same fear she felt when he came into her room, she bets. His entire body is as stiff as board in her embrace. Malfoy doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to pull away from her or even try to hug her back. Hermione tightens her arms around him, reaching one of her hands behind his head and letting the other one fall down his back. She strokes her fingers gently through his hair, which is fine and silky to the touch. It surprises her, though she doesn’t know why.

 

“It’s okay,” she whispers softly, “It’s okay. I believe you. I believe you, Draco . . . ”

 

 _Draco_. Hermione has never called him that before. She has never thought of him as Draco before. He’s always been Malfoy. Just Malfoy.

 

But now he’s Draco.

 

Just Draco.

 

Hermione can hear him expel a heavy breath. The warm air hits her ear, and she has the sudden urge to pull him closer. She hasn’t been able to hold someone for so long. It’s comforting for her, and she draws her arms further around him until they are pressed chest to chest. Draco breathes instead of sitting stock still in her arms like a doll, and she can feel it. His chest heaves against hers with each deep breath that he takes.

 

Hermione continues to stroke his hair, and then she begins to rub his back with the palm of her hand that is lower on his body. Draco relaxes against her. His head leans against hers, his breathing calms. She is sure he does not know what to make of this, but everything can be sorted out and stacked later. Right now, she just wants to hold him.

 

They sit there, on the edge of her bed, for what seems like an eternity of frozen time. Hermione doesn’t recall when Draco wrapped one of his arms around her waist and tangled one of his hands in her hair. For her, it is all just one very long moment in which she helplessly clings to him, afraid of letting go, of waking up from what may turn out to be nothing more than a wonderful dream after all. He doesn’t seem willing to speak. Hermione doesn’t want him to. He has said all he has to say, and there are no more words needed between them.

 

She imbeds in her memory the smell of Draco. Expensive soap, bergamot spice, and citrus fruit—the tang of lemon. She also fixes somewhere in her mind the contours of his body and the way he molds easily against her. He is lanky, where she is curved, but somehow, they fit together like two puzzle pieces clicking into place.

 

He feels nothing like Ron and nothing like Harry. Draco is different from them in so many ways, but she cannot sort out all of those ways at the moment, nor does she want to. Hermione realizes she is tired. She cannot stay like this all night. As slowly as possible, she removes her hold on Draco and gives him time to do the same before she pulls away at last.

 

She has never seen him as vulnerable as he is now. The calm blankness of his eyes is gone, the surety of his expression faded, and even his graceful movement seems to have become somewhat awkward. Hermione’s hands rise to the clasp of Draco’s robe, and she can see the bewilderment in his face. He catches his breath as she unsnaps the clasp and pushes the robe off of his shoulders. It falls down his back, cascading to the floor. Hermione cannot help but smile at what sort of thoughts must be going through his head.

 

“You might want to take off your shoes,” she whispers, her hands brushing once over his shoulders.

 

Draco swallows heavily. “What for?”

 

Hermione’s small smile becomes a toothy grin as she looks at him. She is fully aware of what he thinks she is suggesting, and it amuses her, but she also feels a heat creeping into her cheeks. They are flushed, but it is too dark for him to see.

 

“Not for that,” she amends quickly. “I would just like some company for tonight. You don’t mind . . . ” Hermione tilts her head to the side. “Do you?”

 

Draco looks down, releasing a held breath before bringing his gaze back to hers. He manages to shake his head. “No,” is all he can say.

 

She smiles at his answer and scoots away to lie back down when Draco takes her by the wrist to stop her.

 

“Wait,” he says.

 

Hermione looks at his eyes, a little confused. He bites on the inside of his bottom lip, as if fearful of saying something. She furrows her brow.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

His expression is pained, too tight. He glances down at the space between them. “Were you awake the whole time?”

 

Hermione nods, and then she realizes he isn’t looking. “Yes,” she replies.

 

Draco is quiet, absorbing it all in. She watches the muscles of his face contort and shift, the silver moonlight casting his hair and skin in a pale glow. He looks like a ghost in her room, and for a moment, even Hermione doubts his realness, but he looks up at her. His grey eyes are sharp, crisp, and they break the trance.

 

“And you’re not mad?” he asks her.

 

His voice isn’t weak. Instead, it is firm, laced with disbelief.

 

Hermione reaches out with her hand and takes him by the chin, lifting it a notch. His skin is slightly pink-tinged on the cheeks and forehead, and she can only tell because they are darker than the rest of his face, giving away the natural cast. In the dark all the colors are grey, and she can’t see them. She can only see the grey. His eyes are so bright, too. Bright and wide, showing his fear. Hermione knows that Draco must feel so embarrassed at being caught when she was supposed to be asleep, but she wants him to forget all of that.

 

She cups his face with her free hand, making light strokes with her thumb.

 

Hermione slowly shakes her head. “Why would I be mad?”

 

Draco stares at her, his mouth slightly open in a look of quiet astonishment. After a while, he lifts his hand to her face, replicating the actions of her fingers and her hand. The silence reigns between them as they take the time to study each other’s faces. Hermione licks her dry lips to moisten them. Unconsciously, Draco does the same. Suddenly, he leans towards her, but he pauses only a few inches away. She says nothing, though her eyes flutter to a close. Draco leans in fully, pressing his lips onto hers in a soft kiss.

 

Hermione doesn’t resist. His lips are cool despite the heat, and she welcomes the touch of them to hers. There is a moment of hesitation between them, a pause to contemplate where this is leading, but before too long, they are entangled in each other’s embrace. A part of lips, a push of eagerness, and Hermione wonders who is leading and who is following. Past the contact of lips, she tastes the butterbeer on his tongue. Funny, of all things, she never expected Draco to taste like a cold pint of butterbeer.

 

Draco deepens the kiss, his hand firmly grasping her neck to hold her in place. Everywhere his fingers touch, her skin burns. She can feel his other hand roam over the smooth fabric of her nightgown, racing too close to her breast, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She lets his hand wander and returns the heat of his kiss. She supposes she ought to feel shocked at how well her body responds to his, but she finds it feels oddly just right.

 

Vaguely, Hermione is aware of being laid down on the bed. She presses into the mattress, her head lying back on the pillow and upon her messy hair, and hears the clunk of his shoes as he kicks them off onto the floor. Draco’s body is pressed entirely against hers, pinning her between himself and the bed. She doesn’t mind as long as he doesn’t stop kissing her.

 

He runs one of his hands up and down the side of her gown as every movement of their lips grows more heated, and her skin feels like a fire is scorching it from outside and within. She hasn’t been touched like this in so long. She doesn’t even remember when the last time was, though obviously it was Ron. Draco, however, is so different from Ron. Where Ron is urgent to the point of losing his direction, Draco knows exactly where he wants to go. She wants to feel the warmth of his mouth closer to her own, but she doesn’t know how. Hermione can only answer him with movement just as desperate.

 

The urgency of his lips and tongue are different from the slower guidance of his hands. She feels his hands more fully against her, and she moans against his lips. It is met with a groan, deeper and more guttural than hers. The hand massaging her side carefully slides downwards, over her hip and onto her thigh. He strokes it with soft circular patterns. Hermione tries to catch the moan in her throat, but it comes out this time louder than before. His hand passes onto her inner thigh, traveling upwards underneath her gown.

 

Hermione’s eyes open quickly, and she catches his wrist to stop him before he goes any further.

 

Draco pulls away from her lips, flushed and breathless, and meets her gaze. He stares at her for a while with his eyes glassy and wide. His mouth, swollen and red from the abuse of their kisses, hangs open. He breathes through his mouth. Hermione stares up at him, wondering at her own actions. She isn’t sure why she stopped him, and yet some part of her mind says _yes, you are_. This is too soon and too fast. Not a few hours ago, they still hated each other.

 

No, they didn’t hate each other, but they had clung desperately to the idea.

 

It would take some getting used to, doing the opposite.

 

Neither of them speaks. The silence, however, is rife with words. He continues staring at her for a long moment, just watching her in the darkness; then, Draco leans down and kisses her on the forehead with a motion so soft it freezes her in surprise. Hermione closes her eyes, feeling tears burn at the back of them. She thinks of his lost parents and of hers, of all of the pain they have endured alone that they could have endured together. It’s hard for her to believe this is really happening right now. All of this. It seems as if she is going to wake up at any moment and find him gone and all of this just another dream.

 

Carefully, Draco crawls off of her. He lays himself beside her on the bed to her left, slipping an arm around her waist. The other rests on the pillow, toying with her hair. Hermione clutches onto the arm he has put around her and turns on her side, leaving him facing her back. She feels Draco move closer to her, pressing his body to hers and holding her gently. Closing her eyes, Hermione breathes out a contented breath.

 

Nestled safely in his arms, she feels at home in this bed. Neither of them speaks, and as the night wears on, she falls peacefully asleep in his arms.

 

And for the first time in three months, the nightmares do not come back.

 

 


End file.
